


Rendering Death and Forever

by gleamingandwholeanddeadly (something_safe)



Series: Hellish Instruments [4]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Bottom Will, Face Sitting, Hannibal is smitten, M/M, Murder Husbands on the Run, Oral Sex, PWP, Post-TWOTL, Rimming, TW: Violence, living in europe, lots of tender weird sex, part of my finland series, porn without much plot, tw: brutality, tw: gore, tw: murder (no major character death), will calls hannibal's murder suit a plastic romper, will is salty and sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-14 11:51:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16492049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/something_safe/pseuds/gleamingandwholeanddeadly
Summary: Will makes a choice; Hannibal positively reinforces it.Part of a series but can be read as a standalone <3





	Rendering Death and Forever

**Author's Note:**

> This was a request for the lovely heartturnedtoporceilain on tumblr. Thanks for being patient with me and I hope you enjoy! <3 xo

It starts when Will sees the man at the edge of the lake watching him.

It’s nothing at first. Just a flicker of movement: Will raises his head and follows the trail a lone hiker cuts amongst the trees, trudging his way through the snow. Not that unusual - Will can see his car further down the road, amongst the scrappy branches of the evergreens, purple and grey in the dull light. Campers come up here sometimes to see the lights when the sky is clear; there are a few tourist spots this close to the border; ice hotels and winter lodges. Mostly owned and visited by enterprising locals who don’t mind putting their outhouses on AirBnB.

It’s nothing. Will nods to the hiker, who nods back, and they both carry on their separate ways, Will with Winston and Maera in tow, picking amongst the frozen leaf-litter in their coats and snow booties. They wind up off the ice-crusted dirt road through the forest, the naked black branches glittering with icicles, a world not so different from Wolf Trap all those years ago.

 

Will sees him again twice, always retreating away from him and the dogs. Behind him, through the trees, Will hears the dense crunch of snow and frozen leaf litter under hooves.

That night at dinner, he’s still thinking about the hiker.

“We still have those radios from when we first moved here, right?” He asks Hannibal, between bites of perfectly blue steak, so succulent it drips.

“Indeed we do,” Hannibal replies. He’s golden in the warm light, tawny hair more unkempt than usual and a neat silver beard growing in, kept short. Will can’t help but gaze at him for a moment before he diverts back to his plate: he bewitches him daily.

They’d bought the radios to replace cell phones - not much phone signal in the wilderness. Will had needed a way to communicate with Hannibal in the event he couldn’t warn him of someone approaching the house. At the mention of them now, Hannibal fixes Will with his black, beady gaze, pink tongue slipping out to his upper lip like a snake tasting heat on the air. “Something on your mind?”

“It might be nothing,” Will dismisses.

“If you think it might not be, the chances are it isn’t.”

“I’ll tell you if I think it isn’t.”

“Will.” Hannibal is less insidious these days with his prodding. “What have you seen?”

“A man in the woods.” Leaning back at the thought, Will looks around the dining room, cloaked in cool blue grey, accented as ever by bone and other organic matter that took Hannibal’s interest; pale flooring and window dressings and flashes of rich, zinging copper in the fittings.

His avoidance of Hannibal’s face has not gone unnoticed. Nothing ever does.

“You’re worried you’re imagining him.”

“I’m worried I’m imagining that he’s a threat.”

“Looking for excuses rather than enthusiastically safeguarding that which you hold dear.  Your freedom?”

Will doesn’t quite manage to keep the irate curl of his lip at bay in the face of Hannibal’s goading.

“My life.”

Hannibal’s eyes glow with the metaphor even within the stillness of his face. He dearly loves to have Will’s affections for him reaffirmed, but he needn’t fish for it: Will is not in the habit of changing easily.

“Look, just - let’s do what we did before and carry them, okay? Or keep it near you in the house.”

“As you like, Will.” Hannibal takes another bite of his meat, the red flesh glinting between his teeth.

 

It’s a few days later when Will is walking the dogs again that he sees the car once more.  The hiker isn’t around, so Will carries on undisturbed, fishing tackle slung over one shoulder and a clicker in his hand for Maera - she’s been a little more frightful since Winston came to stay, and it helps to give her treats when they both have to come to heel.

The air is sharp with cold, crystallising Will’s breath as he marches through the trees, tall and spindly, tiger striped with ice. When it’s warmer he sometimes runs with the dogs, but with the lake frozen over for the Winter, crisp and white and lacey as a wedding cake, just this is enough to render him breathless.

On their trek home, Will’s bucket filled with three lazy trout and some frigid water, Winston comes to heel without prompting and noses at Will’s gloved hand.

“All right, buddy. You cold? Not long now.” Will offers him a treat from his pocket, surprised when Winston snorts his dismissal. Nearby, Maera stops her elegant, deer-legged trot and stares into the trees, her pale eyes ghostly at the angle.

Will stops too, listening for wolves: he’d drop a goddamn bucket of fish any time to avoid that shit. For a moment, they’re all still, but there’s nothing but the soft moan of the wind, and snow on the air. It collects on Will’s hat and lashes and stubble; the dogs’ fur too. He stands there so long the sky starts to take on a hint of pink.

The crack of a branch. It’s too late in Winter to be sap, and Will stalls up at the sound, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. Beside him, Winston issues a soft, low growl.  Will looks, and looks, and then he sees it: the hummingbird green flare of binocular lenses through the decrepit trees.

“Okay,” he says to Winston, “it’s nothing. Come on, let’s go.”

He clicks Maera to heel and they continue back toward the house, Will keeping his ears strained. He hears, eventually, the faint crunch of footsteps following. He doesn’t look back, but he picks up his pace, hand slipping the clicker back into his pocket and feeling for the knife there.

Some twenty minutes later as he approaches the house, he nods for the dogs to go wait on the porch while he heads to the shed to put his kit away. Once inside, he grabs the handheld radio off the charger and presses the button to open the signal three times, watching the kitchen window from the shed.

Nothing for a moment, and then an answering trio of crackling clicks on his radio, and the kitchen light turns off. Will sees the door open at the side of the house as Hannibal lets the dogs inside.

A boot crunches on ice outside the woodshed. Will backs himself behind the door and withdraws his knife as it creaks open.

The camera comes in first, held out tentatively. Will is reminded forcefully of Freddie Lounds as he grabs the hand holding it and wrenches until it falls to the floor with a clatter.

The terrible scream muffles the sound of the back door of the house. Will drags the hiker further around the shed to the cover of the trees. When Hannibal appears mere moments later, zipped up in his plastic overalls like a terrifying action figure, he’s carrying the camera, clicking with interest through the photos on the digital display.

“It seems our friend has been photographing us for some time, darling,” he says conversationally. They both look at the hiker, whose blue eyes widen behind his ski mask. “A little rude, don’t you think?”

“You have ten seconds to tell us who sent you,” Will tells him.

“No one- no one,” he gasps immediately, in a thick accent, “I saw you on a crime special- you-” he points at Hannibal, “it was you, at the local market. I didn’t know- I was just curious, I wasn’t going to tell anyone I swear-”

“Who knows you’re here?” Hannibal asks.

“No one, no one, I promise!”

Hannibal and Will exchange a look. Hannibal actually shrugs.

“Shall we give him a head start?” He says, voice crisp at the edges with barely contained excitement. He hasn’t often had the opportunity for this sort of thing since they got here- one drunk who had called Will a slur in a store, but to date rather little else.

“This isn’t Deliveroo, _darling,_ ” Will shoots back, “we can’t just-”

“Will,” Hannibal’s tone becomes a note more serious: _we have to._ Will feels a frantic note of reluctance come up in him. He’s always been resistant to his instincts, but in the face of death, it’s an easy call. This isn’t easy, not with the hiker looking up at them with young, desperate eyes, already brimming with tears.

“I can’t,” Will says, quickly. Hannibal moves and Will grabs at him. “No- ah-!”

The hiker makes a break for it, but not before he shoves Will aside and then grabs his camera from Hannibal’s hands and strikes him hard across the face with it, sending him lurching to one side.

He’s young, and fast, and Will is momentarily too taken aback to move, but he skids into motion as soon as he sees that Hannibal comes back up snarling. Will sprints across the snow after the hiker as he makes a beeline for the trees.

He runs like he hasn’t in weeks, cold air needling at his lungs, eyes never wavering from his target. In the near distance, his target stumbles in a drift and that’s all it takes for Will to grab him by the hood, yank him onto his back and sink his hunting knife into his throat. He does it without conscious thought, as natural as breathing.

A gurgle of crimson floods up out of the ski mask, spattering Will’s face and soaking his gloves. He twists the knife and wrenches it side-wards, spraying the snow with shards of red like shattered glass, severing the head down to spinal column. The animal inside Will says _yes, eat, devour,_ but he just commits the sight of the blood orange flesh of his insides to memory and inhales the scent of carrion.

“That was rude,” he breathes. Behind him, he feels Hannibal arrive, nose dribbling blood and his lip curled, breaths fast. Will looks up at him to watch his furious internal debate: pulverise the corpse and ruin the meat or turn this cretinous little creature into a greater sum of his parts.

“It’s too cold for that, Hannibal,” he warns him gently, “hang him in the shed.”

It takes a beat for Hannibal to visibly come back to himself before he nods and looks around.

“All right. I’ll take him, and then come clear this away.”

“I’ll get the car,” Will volunteers. He wipes his knife down on the hiker’s jacket before he flicks it away and gets to his feet. “Is your face-?”

“You can tend to me when we’re done.” It’s not a reprimand, just pragmatism. Will nods and rummages in the dead man’s pockets until he finds his car keys. He sees the hiker’s pack near the shed and collects it as he leaves Hannibal to prepare him for storage.

 

It takes longer than he thought to sink the car into the lake. The sheet ice is thick enough that Will can drive right out onto it, as far as he dares, the surface groaning under the car’s weight as he steps out. He could leave it until the Spring, he thinks, when the thaw would take it under eventually. But if people come looking before then, it’ll be sitting there like a wrapped gift.

He casts his head around, taking it all in, the sky fading to deep, bruised indigo and the pale frosted trees lit by the moon. Not a human light or sound but for their house through the woods. He can do it tonight.

The ice in the centre of the lake is much thinner, he can see, bubbles visible below and spiderweb cracks formed from the movement of the water beneath. He looks at the car, and sighs.

 

“You threw rocks until the ice cracked, and then put another rock on the accelerator,” Hannibal surmises, sounding equal parts intrigued and amused.

“Not as easy as they make it look in the movies, but it did the job: it went out to the middle, just in first, and the ice just swallowed it up.”

“My my, what a resourceful young man you are.”

“Come off it, I’m not young.” Will stretches out the kinks in his shoulders and takes off his coat, opening up the wood burner in the grate and stuffing it unceremoniously into the flames with the aid of a poker. “What did you do about the blood?”

“Same as last time. Shovelled it up, melted it down.”

Will thinks about stewing stock. He doesn’t know enough about cooking to guess, but he’s fairly certain Hannibal wouldn’t want to let it go to waste.

He’s down to his jeans when he notices Hannibal has gone uncharacteristically quiet behind him.

“Are you watching me strip?” He grouses.

“Yes.” He’s completely unrepentant. Sighing, Will undoes his belt and flies.

“Been a while since I murdered someone and had to destroy all my clothes. I liked these jeans.”

“Yes, it’s a real shame those can’t be saved.”

“They aren’t that bad.”

“They’re vile.”

“They’re not as bad as your plastic romper.”

“Apparently not. Though I suppose you’ve noticed I am not having to stuff my clothes into the fire.”

“I have no idea how you even got into that thing so fast.”

“Practise.”

“Yeah, well. I’m not getting one.”

“Very well. Though I must say, this current ensemble is a great improvement on your jeans.”

Will looks over his shoulder at him, now down to his shorts. He waits for the fire to eat up his jumper and coat, the flames merrily crackling, curling the fabric into ribbons of hot orange like flower petals. When his jeans, belt and socks are in the wood burner, he closes it up. The shoes were the first in.

“Yeah, if you wanted me half naked all the time you probably should have picked a warmer safe house.”

“I did try, if you recall, all those years ago. And who said anything about half?”

It startles a laugh out of Will. It’s not often Hannibal is blatantly lecherous- he usually prefers to be coy and poetic; to overwhelm Will with actions rather than words. Now though, he changes the subject.

“You were considering letting him go, weren’t you? Was it him hitting me that changed your mind?”

An easy answer: “Yes.” He smiles as Hannibal’s eyes warm. “How’s your face?”

“It looks much better than his. Nothing broken, not even a scratch, though it may bruise. Oh- and I took the liberty of checking his pockets too. We should drive his phone out somewhere tomorrow.”

“Maybe we should do it now-”

“No, I have other plans for now.”

 He arches a brow.

“Oh really.”

“Yes.” Hannibal steps toward him. Will glances at where the dogs are lay on their bed, big-eyed but otherwise undisturbed now they’ve had their walk and all signs of danger are gone.

“Not in front of the children,” he says dryly. As ever, Hannibal hypocritically ignores his bad joke and instead touches the warm skin of his waist, guiding Will’s eyes back to his with a thumb on his chin.

“Would you kill anyone who laid a hand on me now, Will?”

That’s easy too. Easier than Will thought. He nods.

“No one gets to touch you except me.”

“Does that work both ways?”

“You tell me.”

Hunger inscribes itself across Hannibal’s face so deeply that Will thinks he may be thinking of eating him again. His eyes are half-focused on Will’s bare chest, tongue flicking against his lower lip as he considers, beard warping with the movement of his jaw.

“It is intolerable to me, to think of you being handled by anyone else.”

“Handled, hm?”

“Would you say that was the wrong word?”

Will takes Hannibal’s hand, considering as he thumbs over the diamond shapes of his knuckles.

“No, I think you handle me quite frequently. I like it, actually.”

“I had assumed as such.” His eyes bore into Will’s now, then flicker down. “You still have blood on your face.”

“So clean me up,” Will says. They smile at one another.

 

Will puts the water on hot in the shower while Hannibal undresses. It’s always as special as it was the first time: it’s not just a literal shedding of armour but symbolic too, Hannibal shucking his layers and emerging from behind the veil, predatory and gleaming.

They’re under the water when Hannibal first reaches up to smear away the blood dried into Will’s beard, fingers gently working out the worst of it before he takes up shampoo to deal with the rest- and Will’s hair. It’s far too easy to let him do this now: it used to make him lock up with wariness to be naked with him, to be so close to teeth with his throat bared.

When Hannibal leans in now, Will tips his chin up, feeling the delicate press of his lips like the first time he’d watched him bite the flesh from a fig, plumptious and shining pink. Decadent and refined. He’s the same way with Will’s body, fingertips loosening the suds from his hair as his mouth trails down his throat, his shadow scraping delicate skin. Will leans back against the shower wall and releases a long breath of tension he’s been holding since he first saw the hiker in the woods.  He cradles the nape of Hannibal’s neck and arches into the pass of his hands over his chest; down his belly.

Hannibal’s hands are a source of great distraction to him as a general rule, and it’s no less true now as he lathers soap over Will’s torso, smoothing his palms back up over his Will’s chest, shoulders, down his arms. He probably knows, Will thinks, shivering when Hannibal’s focus alights lower. He washes his cock and between his thighs not-quite clinically, expression demure but coy as he rinses him down, dutifully ignoring the way Will starts to fatten up at the attention.

Will doesn’t speak, or do anything outside of move the way Hannibal’s hands direct him: that would ruin the game. He just watches Hannibal go down to his knees and carefully wash each of Will’s legs in turn, lifting each foot into his lap and thoroughly soaping them.

“Ticklish,” Will explains, when that particular ritual elicits a couple of stupid bursts of laughter. Hannibal just smiles, small and barely there but genuine. Eventually, he stands and relinquishes his claim on the soap to allow Will the same opportunity.

It’s hypnotic to work the foam over Hannibal’s skin. Will looks at the pale whorls of his chest hair under his hands and tries not to actively lick his lips, just following the trail down his lean belly, to his hips. His own ministrations aren’t nearly so indifferent, and Hannibal shivers just slightly when his slick hand around his cock turns to stroking rather than cleaning.

They don’t speak, but there’s a shift, Hannibal angling his shoulders back against the wall and spreading his feet slightly. He’s gazing at Will’s eyes, Will looking at his mouth, and the air grows a fraction hotter between them as Will tightens his fingers and looks down. Hannibal is thickening up in his hand, the flushed head of his cock already peeking from his foreskin, velvety as Will strokes it smoothly down to run his thumb over the tip.

“I can never get enough of you like this,” he tells him, tone confidential as he squeezes up his shaft again and feels the corresponding shudder of his body, “almost off your guard. Almost not thinking any more.”

“Almost,” Hannibal agrees. He slips his hands up to cradle Will’s jaw for a moment, thumb sweeping under his eye, then to his lips. He pushes up gently with his thumb to expose Will’s canines, then he’s there following the pattern of Will’s teeth with his tongue, more licking than kissing. Will’s mouth falls open in surprise, but he holds still for him, letting him taste the terrain of his teeth and palate as his hand moves faster on Hannibal’s cock. He can’t restrain a faint gasp of want, and Hannibal bucks slightly.

They dissolve into true kisses soon enough, Hannibal’s fingers snarling in his hair and his hips rocking while Will jerks him in earnest. The soap has washed away now and the water makes things too-clean, and after a few minutes Will drops to his knees to guide Hannibal’s cock into his mouth instead, tongue curling around the head. The first taste is enough to make him moan, dense and acrid and sharp. Will closes his mouth over him and sucks wetly to slick the way before he presses him deep into the back of his throat, shivering at the feeling of the exposed glans sliding against his tongue. Hannibal is so hard already that the thickness makes Will’s jaw ache, but he relishes it even as Hannibal’s thumb rubs gently at the knotted scar tissue on his cheek. His other hand frames Will’s jaw, and the possessive curl of his fingers under his chin is enough to sear Will with a throb of need.

“You always look so content like this,” Hannibal tells him, voice gravelly with want, “did you do this before me? At university, perhaps. Drunk at parties; in the side alleys of dive bars. On your knees in the dirt, a vessel for pleasure outside of your own.” He smiles at Will’s irritated little huff. “Tell me Will, are you as enthusiastic with female partners?”

He doesn’t have an answer for that besides the unimpressed quirk of his eyebrow. Hannibal chuckles. “Is that a yes? That’s very interesting.”

Will swallows around him and hums, unconcerned. Initially, this kind of talk had made him wary and self-conscious – indeed it could be much more sinister both in content and nature – but finally he’s starting to understand that some of Hannibal’s probing questions have no deep psychological motivation; no trick. It’s rather more simple: he likes thinking about Will fucking. Giving head, receiving it, wanting it bad enough to beg. His visual memory is considerable, but some things require imagination - and Hannibal’s, hungry as it is, needs constantly feeding.

Will’s needs the opposite. Having his mouth and throat stuffed full and Hannibal’s hands anchoring him in place sometimes feels like his only means of escaping the constantly whirling film reel in his head. He opens up his throat and goes limp for a few long thrusts of Hannibal’s hips, and between the lurid, sloppy sounds of his mouth and Hannibal’s harsh breaths, he’s blissfully centred in no time. It’s a slow-motion macro shot: the drawing muscles of Hannibal’s toned stomach, the near-crushing pressure of his hands and the satin stroke of him against Will’s tongue. The deeper he pushes, the harder it is not to drool, or to hold back the moans. The deep river of comforting, warm darkness opens up in Will and his mind trickles down into it, away from everything but taste and touch and the glint of the wet hair between Hannibal’s hips.

There’s a deep cave there filled with nothing but Hannibal, and Will submerges himself in his dark waters and drowns in him, the sound of running water filling his ears. He moves his lips fast along his cock until it’s too much, both the constant nudge on his gag reflex and the stretch in his cheek. He pulls back with an apologetic gasp and comes surging back to the surface, licking heated skin and blinking slowly as his head clears.

Mahogany eyes agleam with adoration, Hannibal just smiles and holds out his hands to help Will to his feet.

He turns off the water after briefly washing off the last of the soap, and Will is only partly dry and two steps into the bedroom when Hannibal almost lifts him off his feet with the force of his kiss, hands catching Will’s waist and bodily hauling him in.

They stay there briefly, tangled up in the kiss, and then Hannibal directs Will toward the bed. He doesn’t speak, just positions Will firmly with his hands, on his belly with a pillow beneath his hips, legs slightly spread and his hands loose against the sheets until Hannibal kneels behind him and holds out his own with a click of his fingers. Will looks at him over his shoulder.

“A grounding exercise,” he offers, and Will lets him zipper their fingers behind his back with a little sigh. He’s all too aware of the dip of the mattress as Hannibal sinks down behind him, elbows resting gently against the insides of his thighs to spread them further. Hannibal’s breath mists on his skin hotly before he drags one bearded cheek against the tender skin where ass meets thigh, the sharp burn of it zinging sensation up Will’s spine. He judders a little when he does it again, and then outright stutters when Hannibal rubs the rough patch of hair beneath his lower lip up the thin seam of skin behind Will’s balls.

“Oh _fuck,_ ” Will garbles, arms straining when Hannibal continues to trail his tongue flat from Will’s taint, up to the cleft of his ass. It’s a devouring, savouring motion that brings a moan to Will’s mouth; again when he repeats it, over and over until Will can feel the damp cooling between his cheeks.

“Hannibal, yes…” he wrings Hannibal’s fingers in his own, whimpering at the sandpaper of his beard when Hannibal turns his chin and softly sucks at the tender rim of Will’s hole. The flick of his tongue against the sensitive skin has him bucking down against the pillow, seeking friction. It’s maddening, hot and wet and constant. Will’s skin feels saturated with sensation, every nerve ending alight as Hannibal licks and presses.

Hands tightening, pulling his shoulders back to still him, Hannibal tuts into his skin before he sucks softly again. The tip of his tongue teases inside, and Will turns his face into the duvet to stifle the noise he makes.

His hips squirm, toes curling restlessly against the sheets. Will can’t help but feel like his moment of hesitation in the snow – and his subsequent actions – are being positively reinforced. Hannibal writes his pride into Will’s skin with slow, twisting presses of his tongue that have him rending his hands; dragging himself down against the pillow beneath his hips. 

“Ohh…”

“Mm?”

“Yes-”

An answering hum that Will feels inside him, through Hannibal’s tongue. He’s disentangling one hand from Will’s, but he snags both of his thumbs together in his fist to keep him tethered; a distracting tine of pain in the midst of all the needy heat in Will.

 He shudders and bridges back when he feels the rubbing tease of Hannibal’s fingertips, path slicked with spit. He’s already so soft just from the motions of Hannibal’s patient tongue, and the stretch of fingers pressing in – just the right side of too dry – dislodges another deep moan, only partially muffled by the duvet.

Fucking in slow and shallow, Hannibal licks at the stretched skin of Will’s rim to slick his fingers more, the first whisper of his name the only indication he’s feeling anything like Will is right now: nearly frantic with it, lifting his ass with only the burn of his cheeks to show his shame as he fights to get the fingers deeper. He gives a tug on his aching right hand and mutters, “Lube,” and Hannibal release it to let him scrabble the tube out from under the remaining pillow. He tosses it back; drags the pillow closer and buries his face in it as Hannibal uncaps it with a click.

“Keep your right arm up there now, Will,” he says conversationally, “I don’t want your shoulder to get sore again.”

Then he’s fucking Will deeper, scissoring wet fingers and fucking him steady and quick, pressing down with his thrusts until Will feels a flood of sensation too overwhelming to ignore. He bucks up when Hannibal does it again, cock aching against his belly, smearing precome.

“Fuckthere-”

“There?” Hannibal repeats, all soft and serene.

“Hannibal _please…_ ” he shoves his face into the pillow and makes several undignified, high noises as his pleas are answered with a few smooth, deep strokes over his prostate. At some point, Hannibal has added a third finger, and he twists them on the downstroke now to make Will drool more noises, stretching him. His other hand still grasps Will’s thumb, and Will wraps his hand around Hannibal’s to get his attention.

“Fuck me,” he tells him breathlessly, “please, now.”

“Like this?”

“Well, preferably with you inside me.”

His wryness is punished only with another few wet, circling strokes of his fingers, and then Hannibal withdraws both hands to coat himself with lube before he leans over Will’s body. His fist sinks into the mattress over Will’s shoulder, one hand steadying his cock as he strokes the head against Will’s hole, the teasing drag winding him bow tight.

“ _Hannibal-_ ”

His breath leaves him in a single gasp as Hannibal fills him up with an achingly slow push. Despite all his stretching and slicking, he’s thick enough to make Will whimper, so deep when he bottoms out that Will feels gorged on his cock, achingly full. He circles his hips back to feel where they’re flush together, satisfied with Hannibal’s soft moan.

“Will,” he breathes, “my love.”

“Fuck me. Tell me how it feels.” Burying his face in his arms again, Will groans at the drag of skin on skin; the way his body clings to Hannibal’s length as he pulls back, and then sinks right back in.

“Molten and divine,” Hannibal whispers, lips grazing Will’s ear as his hand joins the other on the mattress. He fucks him slow for a few long moments, then nips at the shell. “Alive around me. So eager to feel me inside you, to write every instance of our love into your skin.”

“Can you write it faster?”

A kick of his hips sends a flashflood of heat through Will and he groans through his breathless laugh, grabbing at Hannibal’s hands on the mattress, their fingers twining again. He can’t keep from bridging up, rocking back into every long thrust of Hannibal’s hips, his cock stoking white hot flames in Will’s core that fill his mind with the image of storm-swollen rivers; foaming, rushing torrents. Will breathes like he’s submerged in it, choked cries and puffing breaths of exertion, Hannibal’s own humid behind his ear as they move together.

“Oh God you’re good,” Will slurs, half insensible with his pleasure, muscles in his arms bunching with tension, “please, more…”

Hannibal gives him more, shifting Will’s knees up briskly so his hips are higher, hands going to Will’s shoulders as he starts to give him deeper, more powerful thrusts, knocking the breath out of him. Soon, Will is dribbling words and noises into the pillow in his arms while his cock dribbles pre-come onto the sheets, thighs shaking with the bliss Hannibal wakes inside him radiating through his whole body.

It’s so encompassing he forgets everything else; no more arterial spray and the body hanging in the shed, nothing but Hannibal and every spark of shivering electricity he sets loose in Will with his movements, filling out every inch of space inside him until he can feel his orgasm gathering between his hips; the current rushing to the ocean mouth of his release. He slithers his hand beneath himself and strokes his cock in sharp downward motions, Hannibal’s groan echoing his own as he tightens up around him.

“That’s it, Will, let me feel.”

The words trickle into the sounds of rushing water as Will comes in pulsing waves, squeezing and rocking on Hannibal’s cock, shooting messily onto the sheets and his own belly and hand. He’s deluged in sensation, panting ragged and open mouthed into his skin while Hannibal’s hips circle slower.

“Okay?” He whispers, when Will finally gathers his wits enough to stretch his arm back out.

“God, yeah. Don’t stop. You’re close?” He knows he is. Hannibal’s voice and breathing get clipped when he’s on that last stretch.

“Yes, yes.” With Will’s permission, he’s already starting to roll his hips again, cock sliding deeper again now Will has relaxed. It makes him choke on another moan, sensitive now and still desperate for more.  

“Ohh-”

“Will,” Hannibal hisses, the rhythmic slapping of skin quickening again, the prickle of hair and the impact of flesh so much more prominent now the river has slowed.

Will wants to feel every instant of Hannibal coming unmoored; losing himself in the hot mire of wanting him. He wants every dark, twisted inch of him, especially when he pulls out and pushes on Will’s hip, a familiar ritual by now.

“On me?” Will checks, twisting onto his back carefully, legs spreading either side of Hannibal’s hips.

Long fingers curling around his cock, Hannibal jerks Will down closer by his thighs with the other as he strokes to bring himself off, hair tumbling over his eyes and facial hair gleaming silver with the slack of his jaw. It’s beautiful to watch him, all the tension compacting his lean belly and thigh muscles and then unfurling them as he stripes Will’s cock and belly with his load, teeth bared, breaths harsh.

That’s all they are for a moment then, receding pleasure and panting breaths. With shaking hands, Hannibal reaches out to smear his work against Will’s skin, tongue swiping his upper lip as he surveys the mess he’s made of him. Despite being sated, he still looks _hungry_.

“What?” Will mumbles at the familiar look in his eye.

“I’d like to try one more thing.”

“You- God, what?”

“A simple experiment, nothing you won’t enjoy.”

“Historically not the case,” Will drawls, but he’s already sitting up, letting Hannibal move him up onto his knees, startling only slightly when he turns his back on Will and lies down before him. “Hannibal?”

“I’m sure you understand the general premise of this, Will,” Hannibal says, gesturing loosely for Will to move forward.

“You want me to sit on your face.”

“I want you to allow me to try and make you come again.”

A burst of want again at the words, the images; a smoke trail relighting a candlewick from a spark.

“God, Hannibal.” Will sighs at the ceiling, and shuffles forward a little on his knees, face starting to burn when his cock drags against Hannibal’s collarbones, barely softened off with this new attention. When Hannibal grips his thighs and pulls him down lower, he has to brace his hands against his thighs so he doesn’t fall. “Fuck.”

He didn’t think this was feasible when Hannibal said it – he’s not as young as he used to be, and it’s not like he didn’t just come _hard_ – but the first few passes of Hannibal’s tongue against his hole have him shivering again inside of a minute. Every bobbing tip of his chin drags his beard against sensitive skin, and Will can’t stop himself from grinding down then, mouth dropping open on a surprised groan when Hannibal’s tongue presses inside him as he grips Will’s cock in both hands.

From there, it’s so hard not to be greedy. It feels unbelievably good to take what he wants from Hannibal, riding his mouth and fucking into the tight tunnel of those hands, his cockhead dragging against Hannibal’s chest hair where he’s starting to glisten and firm up again, refractory period be damned.

If he’s uncomfortable in any way, Hannibal doesn’t show it, just fucking Will with his tongue before he laps over every crevice, palming and squeezing at his cock while Will’s thighs tremble ever more fiercely.

“Hannibal, Han- _oh God._ ”

He can hardly breathe, nails digging into Hannibal’s thighs, head hanging down. His stomach creases as he bucks harder into his hands, hips tilting forward. With a soft moan, Hannibal cranes up to follow him, dragging his bristled cheek against Will’s skin once more before sucking softly at the same spot. It’s too much, already too much. Will is oversensitive and overwrought and within moments he’s straining, a moan bleeding out of him as his second orgasm trembles through him like the reverberation of a passing freight train. It keeps going and going, creamy come smearing into Hannibal’s skin and hair, his slick mouth smudging against Will’s thighs as he kisses the last tremors of it away.

Rolling off him, Will lies down where he lands on the dark sheets, panting hard. He feels Hannibal sit up beside him, his warm hand smoothing up his back, a necessary touch to ground him when he feels untethered and mindless with it.

“Holy shit,” he wheezes. Hannibal lets out a soft laugh.

“Feeling all right?”

“That’s one way of putting it. Do you want-?”

“No, thank you. That was enough.” When Will looks at him, he’s smiling, lips flushed and pink, expression extremely satisfied. “And for you?”

“I don’t think I can stay awake much longer,” Will burbles, half-laughing, “or walk.”

“Then I’d say we’ve done good work.” Hannibal gets up, and even though Will doesn’t want him to go, it’s soothing to hear him running water, splashing as he washes. “You’ve been wound up for days.”

“Was I distracted?”

“Only as much as you ever are by these matters.” Hannibal is still gleaming with signs of his wash when he returns with a hot flannel and climbs onto the bed. “I did not feel neglected, if that’s what you’re asking. Lie back.”

Will turns obligingly onto his back when prompted, letting Hannibal wipe him down with a deep hum of satisfaction.

“I just had a feeling,” he whispers when Hannibal pauses to look into his eyes, one hand trailing softly down his cheek.

“I know.  I had no doubt you would find your quarry, like the hound tails the fox. I have always had an enormous amount of faith in you, Will.”

Even said not ten minutes after his beautiful, soft mouth was occupied between Will’s thighs, it’s the kind of poetry that brings Will right back into the fray of their reality. He watches Hannibal, half silhouetted above him in the dim room, and wonders when they became such monsters for one another.

“I would kill anyone who tried to take you from me,” he promises, soft and serious.

Hannibal’s sharp grin opens up a window of pale ivory in his darkly shadowed face, fingertips trailing down Will’s chest.

“I know you would,” he whispers. “That’s why you’re mine.”

 

 

 


End file.
